


Making Snow Angels

by aknightofthe7kingdoms



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is So Done (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cold Crowley (Good Omens), Cold Weather, Cold-Blooded Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley is a Little Shit, M/M, Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Sickfic, Sneezing, Swapping bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-01-25 15:49:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21358747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aknightofthe7kingdoms/pseuds/aknightofthe7kingdoms
Summary: "Damn but the angel could be obtuse at times, although to be fair it’s not like Crowley came right out and admitted that the cold air was hurting his face. Surely if the angel realized exactly how unpleasant the cold was for him, he’d be a little more amenable to talking the Bentley.If only there was a way for Aziraphale to experience it for himself."In which Crowley acts a right fool and pays for it in the end.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 375





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to finish this entirely and post it completed but here I am lying on my couch with a 39 degree fever so you're getting it in two chunks. (I think Crowley cursed me with illness after all the sick snek torture. Mean old demon.) Part two should be out before the end of this weekend unless my brain cooks before then. At least this is giving me plenty of inspiration for part two, ha ha ha. *Cough cough cough*

On the day our story takes place, the London area was hit by a cold snap that froze puddles overnight. Travelers left their homes to find their cars encased in a sheet of ice and had a difficult time chipping their vehicles out without slipping on the equally icy pavement. Windows were obscured by frost, people could see their breath as it puffed out into the chilly air, and fat snowflakes had just begun to fall, muffling the noise of the morning commute and giving the world an otherworldly feel.

The bell above the bookshop door at A.Z. Fell and Co rang out noisily as one commuter hurried in from the street with a growl. “Shit! It’s like the third circle of hell out there!” Crowley protested, scrubbing the snow out of his windblown hair with gloved hands[1]. 

“I suppose you would know better than most,” a voice floated out from somewhere toward the rear of the shop. Crowley waved a hand and the rest of the dampness that clung to his coat and scarf vanished before he entered the shop properly and wound his way around precariously filled tables and overpacked shelves to the small room at the back. 

Aziraphale emerged from around the corner looking his usual self with the addition of a pale pink laptop bag draped over one shoulder. Crowley tilted his head to one side and eyed the strange new addition with a smirk. “Whatchu got there?” he asked by way of greeting, nodding toward the bag. 

“Good morning Crowley,” the angel replied, much more of a stickler for courtesies. “One of the students from the university left it behind last night. I thought we could return it along our way. They’ll surely be needing it. Honestly, I’m surprised that I haven’t received a telephone call inquiring about it yet this morning.” 

“Mmph,” Crowley responded with a shrug. “Yeah, why not. ‘Long as you’re the one doing the actual returning.” 

“Yes, of course,” answered the angel who was at the coat rack shrugging his way into a woolen version of his customary beige coat. He donned a tartan patterned scarf and hat as well and together the pair left the shop, the ‘open’ sign flipping to ‘closed’ of its own accord. 

Crowley began to cut his way quickly across the crowded sidewalk toward his customary, completely illegal parking spot when Aziraphale stopped him with a gloved hand upon his arm. “I thought we could walk if it’s all the same to you.” 

Crowley stopped midstride and turned around to gape at the angel. “You thought we could walk?” the demon repeated, his breath drifting between them in a puff of steam. “In this?” He flicked his yellow eyes around at the thick grey clouds, heavy with snow, the slowly building drifts lining the sidewalk. 

The angel had a sparkle in his eyes, one that Crowley knew meant that love was rolling off him in waves. “It’s the first real snowfall London has seen this year!” Big fat snowflakes were already beginning to settle on the brim of his ridiculous hat. They matched his white-blond hair. “When I noticed it starting up this morning, I thought, ‘How lovely!’” Aziraphale gave a little wiggle and Crowley rolled his eyes in disbelief. 

“When I noticed it, I thought, ‘How fuc-’” 

“Language, Crowley,” Aziraphale admonished mildly as a woman and two small children passed them by, the former giving them a harsh look and the latter dissolving into giggles muffled behind mittened hands. 

Crowley went on without skipping a beat. “Are you kidding me, Angel? It’s freezing out here!” They’d only been outdoors for one minute, if that, and the warmth of the bookshop was long gone. The nip in the air was already beginning to sting the tops of his ears and the tip of his nose. 

Aziraphale tutted. “You exaggerate. It’s barely cold enough for there to be snow[2].” 

“Can’t you look at the _pretty __snow_ from inside the car?” Crowley whinged, gesturing toward the Bentley with both hands. “The warm dry car?” 

“It’s not the same,” the angel insisted, still wearing a small smile. “It’s not as fun.” 

_ “Fun,” _the demon said derisively. “You think it’s fun for me to freeze my balls off so you can do a good deed for a forgetful uni student.” 

A combination of the vulgarity and the mocking tone finally drew Aziraphale out of his cheerful mood. “You don’t have to come along, you know,” he said curtly. “You’re very welcome to stay behind.” 

Crowley bristled. The angel might as well have told him to go fuck himself, or at least, this is as close as he would ever come to it. “Wh- that’s not-” 

“Really now,” Aziraphale went on coolly, “I’d rather go unaccompanied if you’re going to look for reasons to complain the entire time.” 

Crowley stammered through half an alphabet of noises before he managed to bite out, “I do _ not _ look for reasons to complain!” 

“Well,” Aziraphale replied abruptly, _ “I _ am going and if you choose to join me, I hope you bring along a better temper.” And with that, he turned on his heel and started walking briskly away. 

Crowley stared after the angel with his mouth hanging open. Surely some things go without saying like, ‘I barely have an ounce of fat on my frame and besides that I’m a snake and a demon from the fiery pits of hell so waltzing about in the snow isn’t exactly my idea of a good time.’ Damn but the angel could be obtuse at times, although to be fair it’s not like Crowley came right out and admitted that the cold air was hurting his face. Surely if the angel realized exactly how unpleasant the cold was for him, he’d be a little more amenable to talking the Bentley. 

If only there was a way for Aziraphale to experience it for himself. 

A mischievous grin twisted Crowley’s mouth and he quickly began striding down Greek Street after his companion. “Angel! Wait up!” 

Crowley loitered in the doorway of the registrar’s office while Aziraphale made his explanations and handed over the laptop bag. It was only three minutes or so before he returned, looking quite pleased with himself, and they went along their merry way. 

“They were able to track her down using some sort of identification number on one of her papers and everything will be sorted within the hour.” 

“S’that so,” Crowley drawled, hands wedged deep in his pockets as he sauntered alongside the angel back into the winter chill. 

“Indeed.” They reached the bottom of the stairs leading down from the old red brick building and Aziraphale turned to Crowley. “So, what are you in the mood for now?” 

The moment having arrived, Crowley tried to seem nonchalant when he said, “Actually, there is a little bit of business that I’d like to get sorted out.” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale seemed quite curious. “What kind of business is that?” 

Yellow eyes flicked back and forth behind black lenses and, when he was satisfied that no one was paying them any attention, Crowley pulled off one of his leather gloves and held out his hand expectantly. 

The angel glanced down at the offered hand and then fixed him with a blank look. “What is it?” 

“S’time to swap now,” Crowley stated like it was obvious. “Gimmie your hand.” 

Aziraphale took a step away from Crowley’s hand like the demon was holding something foul. “For whatever reason?” 

“We’re going to walk the proverbial mile in each other’s shoes, aren’t we?” 

“If this is some part of some,” Aziraphale began righteously, “Some _ demonic _ _ plot, _ I will not be involved!” 

At this, Crowley rolled his eyes. “Look” he growled impatiently, “I say I’m freezing my nuts off and you say ’m ‘_ just _ _ looking for reasons _ _ to _ _ complaaain _ _ ’ _.” Crowley’s tone was dripping in ridicule. “The only way we can settle this is if we switch places.” He waved his ungloved hand back and forth between them. “I’ll hop into yours ‘nd you hop into mine and we’ll walk back to the bookshop and then we’ll both know the truth.” 

Aziraphale’s hands were clasped in front of him. “This is a foolish idea.” 

“Eegggh, maybe a little bit,” Crowley conceded with a shrug, “But! If we switch and after we walk back you still think this-” he gestured vaguely to the world around them, “is fit to be walking about in, I will never again complain about the weather!” 

“Really?” Aziraphale exclaimed with a chuckle. “For how long?” 

“For the rest of our existence! Swear to Somebody!” 

“Hmm,” the angel said, tapping one finger on his chin thoughtfully, “And if, on the _ very _ small off-chance I agree with you at the end of all this, what do you get out of this wager?” 

Crowley grinned a devious grin. _“When_ you agree with me, you will apologize for being an inconsiderate bellend,” (_“__Bellend__?”_ Aziraphale mouthed in distaste.) “and then you will think of an appropriate way to make it up to me.” 

“That’s it?” Aziraphale asked. 

“That’s it,” Crowley answered, and he once again held his hand out to the angel. “Now hurry up before someone looks.” 

Aziraphale was aware that he was being tempted by Crowley, but this was not unusual – it was in the demon’s nature to tempt and not the first time he’d allowed himself to give in. With one last look of consideration at the gently falling snowflakes carried along on a mild breeze, Aziraphale pulled off one of his gloves and took Crowley’s hand. 

The experience of moving from one earthly body to another was unsettling to say the least, but fortunately, the process lasted mere seconds. 

Most unfortunately however, Aziraphale realized that he’d made a huge mistake. 

To begin with, his face was _burning._ Aziraphale was acutely aware of every inch of exposed skin on Crowley’s head and neck and even the small gaps between his sleeves and his gloves. What had felt like a refreshing cool breeze in his corporation felt sharp and intense in Crowley’s body. The tips of his ears were throbbing and although his hands and feet were well covered, they weren’t faring much better. It was an urgent kind of pain that demanded he get inside quickly or seek out a source of heat. To make matters worse was the snow. The soft, fluffy flakes that barely felt cold when they landed on his cheeks before now felt like pinpricks of pain for as long as they sat on his bare skin melting into tiny droplets of water. But the worst part by far was that every breath that he drew made his lungs ache horribly, so he stopped breathing immediately. 

‘Oh dear,’ Aziraphale thought with a rush of shame, realizing Crowley must have been experiencing this agony since they left the bookshop and even worse, every time he stepped foot out into cold weather! ‘It appears I’ve been a little insensitive to the old boy.’ 

He was quite prepared to admit his faults and serve his penance when Crowley leaned in close, peering at him with his own blue eyes, blatantly searching for any sign of discomfort. “Ssso?” Crowley hissed smugly in Aziraphale’s voice, which was bizarre. All of this was so bizarre. “Thoughtsss?” 

It was a foolhardy thing to do (the whole affair really was the result of a great lack of good judgement on his part) but instead of admitting that Crowley was right, Aziraphale drew an icy breath and said, “It’s not bad.” (‘What are you doing?’ he chastised himself silently.) 

Crowley, who had millennia of practice observing others and unearthing their secrets was watching him unblinkingly. That very snake-like habit was so much more unsettling coming from Aziraphale’s own face! The demon slowly twisted his borrowed features into a devious sideways grin. “Liar,” he accused. “You’re lying!” 

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide behind the demon’s dark lenses; hopefully the sunglasses were enough to hide it. “I certainly am not!” he insisted and submerged a shiver. “It’s not nearly as bad as you made it out to be!” 

“I call bullshit!” Crowley in Aziraphale’s body replied boldly. “You’re a bad liar Angel!” And then, before Aziraphale could respond, Crowley waved a hand and said lightly, “But that’s fine! You can hold on to your _ pride, _” (Crowley over-enunciated the ‘d’ sound in pride) “if it means I get to stay in here! I can’t remember the last time I felt so warm in the snow!” 

Crowley was exceedingly pleased with himself. Aziraphale’s corporation was loads more resistant to the cold than his own serpent body. It was overall a more comfortable body to be inside with its soft curves where he was all sharp angles. And from the way Aziraphale was holding himself so stiffly, without any of his usual little movements, Crowley knew that he was feeling the cold as he usually did. This was working out brilliantly! 

“Well, shall we?” he exclaimed dramatically, gesturing back down the street in the direction they had come. 

As they made their way together along Charing Cross, Crowley walked with an uncharacteristic spring in his step. “I could get used to this!” he spouted and glanced over at Aziraphale who was trying very hard not to look cold and failing spectacularly. “In fact, I think you had it right all along! This is a wonderful day to go walking.” 

“Is it indeed?” Aziraphale puffed. His arms were drawn in as close to Crowley’s body as he could manage. They were nearly back at the bookshop and soon they could put an end to this folly. 

Delighting in the angel’s obvious misery, Crowley smiled wolfishly. “Of course! In fact,” he went on delightedly, “we should walk down to St James!” 

“What?!” Aziraphale exclaimed, his yellow eyes going wide with alarm. 

“Yes! A tip-top idea, that!” Crowley was having far too much taking on Aziraphale’s mannerisms, much to Aziraphale’s chagrin. “What say you, my dear?” 

Aziraphale’s commitment to the whole façade was waning fast. “Now look,” he began, giving the lapels on Crowley’s coat a tug. “If you’re quite through maki-” 

“Oh!” Crowley gasped dramatically, placing one hand over his mouth. “I’m so sorry! I’m being _ sooo _ ill-mannered! You’re not feeling _ cold _ _ , _ are you?” 

It was infuriating! Aziraphale couldn't quite wrap his mind around how he’d gotten in this fix in the first place or why he responded the way he did when clearly the best thing to do would be to apologize to Crowley and get on with their lives. Regardless, he smiled a smile that wasn’t really a smile[3] and said, “Not at all.” 

“Then let’s jolly well go!” Crowley replied, marching down the sidewalk with gusto. “This is tickety-boo as fuck!” 

By the time they reached St James, Aziraphale was ready to concede. He was thoroughly miserable. His teeth were chattering, his body was shuddering non-stop, and his nose was dripping embarrassingly. 

That, and Crowley was spread out in the ground making a man-shaped snow angel on the lawn outside Buckingham Palace and humming the tune of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” 

Aziraphale (in Crowley’s body) leaned over Crowley (in Aziraphale’s body) and said, “Really now, Crowley. People are staring.” 

“Never made a snow angel before,” Crowley chirped from the ground. “Never made a snowman either. Might do.” 

Aziraphale pulled the warm knitted had he had long since willed into existence further down over Crowley’s frozen ears. “I believe this has gone on long enough.” 

At this, Crowley popped up to his feet[4]. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” 

With a long-suffering sigh, Aziraphale muttered, “I’d like to switch back now please.” 

“And why is that?” Crowley asked innocently, hovering close to the angel expectantly. 

“You know why.” 

“Oh, I’d really like to hear it.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Aziraphale said, “Because if I have to spend one more minute in your defective body, I am going to freeze and surely discorporate.” 

“Angel,” Crowley said smoothly, pulling off one of Aziraphale’s gloves and holding out his hand, “That’s all you had to say.” 

[1] The fact that Crowley was wearing not only a sensible winter coat but also a scarf and gloves spoke volumes about the chilly weather. That he was not wearing a hat must be disregarded – Crowley had not found a hat that matched his current aesthetic and besides, the angel had let slip on one drunken occasion that Crowley’s red hair was lovely, so hats were quite clearly out of the question. 

[2] This was true. It was only -2°C, however with the windchill it felt closer to -10°C. 

[3] It was far too manic to be considered anywhere close to a real smile. 

[4] Sort of. Aziraphale’s corporation was a considerably less easily persuaded to pop up than Crowley’s was. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Squabbling, sulking, and sneezes. Let's play torture the snek!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some mild gross sickness related stuff in this chapter so if that isn't your jam it's best to turn back now. Mind the tags.

Marianna, who was seven years old, was in London for the first time on holiday with her family and having the most wonderful time. Her mother and father had insisted that the weather in London was ‘not going to be the same as back home’ and ‘it might not even snow while we’re there’ and ‘the travel site says it’s more than likely going to rain so we’d better pack your rubber boots.’ Thankfully however, the grown-ups were wrong again (as usual) and the view from their hotel window that morning was crisp and white and full of opportunity! And now, Marianna was playing in the snow a distance from the tour group her parents had joined because when you’re seven years old there’s only so much history you can absorb over the course of one morning but your appetite for freshly fallen snow is limitless! She was currently hopping from place to place, attempting to write her name on the undisturbed snow near some sort of castle or something. 

She was just about to dot the ‘i’ when she noticed something strange.

There were two men holding hands, which was not strange. Marianna’s friend Jaeden had two dads and they held hands all the time. The strange part was that the men ‘changed places’ but not in any sort of normal way. They didn’t move their bodies at all, they just sort of slipped right into each other until the tall man in black was on the left and the shorter rounder man in beige was on the right. Marianna, who was only seven years old, goggled at the men in disbelief. Her eyes grew wider and rounder still when the tall dark man suddenly stiffened as though in pain, and began spouting the longest, foulest string of bad words that she had ever heard. 

_ “Oh shit! Oh fuck! _ _ Oh _ _ fucking shit! Bugger my _ _ arse _ _ !” _

“Is that really necessary?” the shorter man snapped, even as he took the tall man’s arm and began leading him along the path. 

“W-were you planning to dissscorporate in my b-body?” 

“Might I remind you that this was your brilliant idea?” 

The tall man made a sound of disgust. And then, to her horror, he lifted a finger and pointed directly at her. “That kid sssaw us, by the w-way.” 

Now the shorter man was looking at her! “Ah yes. I’ve got this one,” he said. 

Marianna was off like a shot, running as fast as she could to the safety of her parents. Back over her shoulder she heard a crisp _ snapping _sound and then...she stopped in her tracks. 

Why had she been running again? Marianna glanced over her shoulder but there was nothing there. It was the strangest feeling, almost like waking up from a daydream. Then she realized that she was holding something in her mittened hand; a crisp new ten pound note! Wow! Daddy said that pounds are worth a lot more than regular dollars! 

Marianna scampered back over to her family to show them her discovery. 

Moments later, Aziraphale and Crowley were seated at a nearby café, the former tucking into a plate of scones with jam and cream and the latter huddled around a cup of black coffee like it was the only source of heat in the room. 

“This really was one of your more poorly thought out schemes,” the angel said disdainfully before taking another bite. 

Crowley had stopped shivering violently but was still waiting for the half-frozen feeling to leave his body. “Ah, it was worth it to see the look on your face - well, my face actually.” 

“Are you planning to drink that or climb inside of it?” 

“In a minute. First things first, it’s time for you to keep up your end of the bargain.” 

Aziraphale gave him a reproving glance. “Very well. I-” 

“One moment,” Crowley interrupted with a sniff and reached into a pocket for his mobile, giving a few quick taps and then lowering it to the tabletop but holding it strangely upright. “Ok, go ahead.” 

“What are you doing?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Are you recording me right now?” 

“What?” 

“Crowley!” 

“Just-” he waved his free hand dismissively. “Start talking.” 

“You are!” The angel was frowning and pointed at the back of Crowley’s phone. “That’s the camera.” 

Crowley lowered the phone and stared at Aziraphale. “Who taught you that?” 

Aziraphale looked offended. “It’s not that hard to figure out![1]” 

“Last week you couldn’t figure out how to work the ice maker in my fridge. It has three buttons and the one that makes ice cubes has a little picture of an ice cube on it.[2]” 

Aziraphale looked distinctly unimpressed with the direction the conversation was taking. 

“Ok, forget the camera,” Crowley said hurriedly. He stowed his phone away in his jacket pocket and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Go on then,” he urged, his eyes bright as a child who is expecting a treat. 

With a roll of his eyes Aziraphale wondered, not for the first time that day, how he had allowed himself to be talked into such a stupid idea. He drew a deep breath and said quite formally, “Crowley, I apologize that I did not take you seriously. It was quite insensitive of me and I am very sorry for it.” 

The demon’s disappointment was almost tangible. He swiped at the underside of his nose with his sleeve. “Well, that was very well said but not even close to what we agreed upon.” 

“Yes, it is, you idiot.” 

Crowley gave him a meaningful look. 

“You don’t honestly expect me to say _ that! _” Aziraphale uttered indignantly. 

“Come ooonnnn!” 

“I’m not going to say that! Absolutely not!” 

Crowley made a rude sound with his mouth and went back to his coffee. And then a moment later he muttered, “You’re such a bastard.” 

“I heard that.” 

“Good.” 

Aziraphale and Crowley rode the tube back to Soho having had enough of the snow between the two of them. They sat across the aisle from each other on the train with Crowley draped over a pair of seats with his arm folded, gazing sullenly out a window into the flickering darkness and Aziraphale pointedly looking away from the moody demon. 

By the time they were walking back to the bookshop from the station, Aziraphale was beginning to feel somewhat guilty, the silent train ride having given him time to consider that, if he had just listened to Crowley in the first place instead of badgering him into walking through the snow, the demon would not have felt compelled to switch places to demonstrate how badly the cold impacted him and they would be enjoying themselves instead of ignoring one another. 

As they came upon the bookshop however, it was Crowley who broke the silence by clearing his throat. “You’re probably wanting to open the shop and let in all of your pet scholars.” 

“Actually,” the angel began pleasantly, “I was hoping you might want to come in to warm up. Have a cup of tea.” 

“Nghk.” Crowley scrubbed one hand through his hair. “Got some stuff to take care of,” he said evasively. “M’gonna to head back to mine for a bit. Water the plants. Think I might have left the oven on too.” He trailed off lamely. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale replied, trying and failing to entirely submerge his disappointment[3]. “Alright then.” 

“I’ll call you later,” Crowley added over his shoulder, as he was already walking off toward the Bentley at a brisk pace. 

“Mind how you go then.” Finding himself rather unexpectedly alone, Aziraphale sighed, and then resigned himself to a demon-free afternoon spent amongst anxious university students. 

The Bentley was warm; it was always warm in the winter, mindful as it was of its demon’s sensitivity to the cold. It would never consider allowing the snow and ice to pile up on it like other less well-behaved cars. Crowley was grateful for this, never more so than now when he still felt the chill settled deep inside his corporation. He settled into the driver’s seat and wrapped his stiff fingers around the steering wheel and closed his eyes in appreciation. Such a good car. 

Without opening his eyes, Crowley quickly ducked his face into his elbow and caught a sneeze. He scrubbed at his nose with a gloved hand and scowled at the wetness that was left behind. Ugh. Yet another unpleasant side effect of traipsing around in the snow. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief that wasn’t there a moment ago and blew his nose, and then tossed it toward the passenger seat. It vanished from existence before it touched the upholstery. 

Why was he still living in London after all this time? (This is not a real question. Crowley knew the answer, he just regretted that the answer chose to set up his bookshop in Soho rather than somewhere further south, like Athens. Honestly, London of all places!) 

The drive back to Mayfair was mostly accomplished by the Bentley with very little input from the demon within who was quite distracted. Cold weather always made him feel rather sluggish and drowsy, a remnant of his serpent nature much like his yellow eyes. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself in his bed and nap until his vessel was properly warm again. He’d wake up when the snow stopped falling and the roads were clear and then go back to the bookshop when he didn’t feel so groggy, maybe bring the angel a treat as an apology for ducking out like that. 

He was nearly at his flat when the tickle returned. Crowley swiped at his nose with the back of one hand which did nothing to dispel the sensation. “Hh’ih-huTSCCHH!” He sniffled wetly with a growl. Fucking winter. But one sneeze wasn’t enough to dispel the burning in his sinuses. He scrunched up his nose unhelpfully, gave a hard sniff and then, “H’ih-TSCCHuh! Eh-TSCHHhuu!” he sneezed harshly. 

And then Crowley realized what was happening, what had been slowly developing ever since he’d gotten his body back. He swallowed experimentally and felt the beginnings of a sore throat, confirming his suspicion that his corporation was afflicted with what was shaping up to be a nasty head cold. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he complained to no one. Was this Aziraphale’s way of teaching him a lesson; let his corporation get sick knowing that there was blessed little Crowley could do to about it? 

If Crowley was still an angel, he would simply heal himself and move on with his day. But as a demon Crowley couldn’t heal anything – it was one of many things he’d lost in the Fall. But even so, Crowley had his ways of coping with matters such as these. Fortunately, he was the only demon who possessed an imagination and he was very good at using it. On the rare occasion when his energy dipped low enough for his vessel to contract an illness, Crowley would just imagine that he felt fine until his immune system naturally fought off whatever he’d come down with. As a result, Crowley had not spent a single day feeling sick in over 250 years[4]. It was a track record that he intended to keep untarnished. 

Back in his flat, Crowley attempted to imagine that he was perfectly fine, 100% symptom free, the very picture of health and it worked for a while. He snapped his winter clothing off and tossed his keys[5] onto the pristine surface of his desk. He checked the ansaphone – no messages. He made his way to the kitchen, glowering at the plants as he passed them by. 

He caught a glance of the window behind the plants and the miserable snowy sky and was reminded of how he still felt chilled to the bone. Crowley shivered. 

“No!” he snapped, his voice echoing down the length of his sparsely decorated flat. “Not doing that!” He wasn’t cold, he was _ fine. _ Crowley willed his muscles to stop contracting and continued to the kitchen where he poured himself a glass of Talisker. Then he draped himself over his garish throne and with a snap the flat screen was lit up with The Good Place. But the most recent episode began imitating recent events a little too closely for comfort and Crowley felt personally attacked by his television. (Earth is cancelled? Seriously, too soon.) In a flash, his mind was flooded with the memory of Lucifer himself tearing through the tarmac at Tadfield Airbase and- 

The itch in his sinuses returned full force and Crowley doubled over and sneezed explosively several times into his bare hands. The resulting mess left very little scope for the imagination; it was impossible to pretend that he was fine when his hands were drenched with spray and his nose was dripping all the way to his upper lip. “Guh,” he moaned pitifully, shuddered, and resigned himself to the fact that this was one of those times when imagination just wasn’t going to cut it. 

Time to resort to his tried and true Plan B – sleeping it off. There was a chemist close by. Surely, he could find something there to help take the edge off so he could pass out until he got over this cold. Did humans still put opium in cold medicine? Hopefully. That stuff would definitely do the trick. 

Crowley’s winter clothing reappeared on his thin frame with the addition of a handkerchief in his right coat pocket, and he headed back out into the winter chill. 

  1. It was Crowley. Rather, Crowley didn’t explain anything directly. Aziraphale had watched Crowley hold his phone that peculiar way at the park one afternoon, and then figured out weeks later that he had been filming a row of fluffy yellow ducklings that day. He’d caught Crowley replaying the video when he thought Aziraphale wasn’t paying attention, but Aziraphale had noticed and didn’t want to embarrass the demon by bringing up the video or the way Crowley smiled softly as he watched the baby ducks. 
  2. It wasn’t that Aziraphale couldn’t figure out how to work the ice machine. It was that he wasn’t sure if the ice cube button was for making ice or getting it to come out the spout. 
  3. Especially considering Crowley had made a trip back to his flat that very morning to water the plants and administer whatever discipline he felt necessary.
  4. During the second cholera pandemic, after a night of heavy drinking, Crowley had been hit so hard and fast by the disease that he had at first mistaken his symptoms for overindulgence. In the end there was nothing he could do but drag himself back to his room and wait to either recover or die.
  5. Crowley didn’t require keys either for starting the Bentley or for getting into his flat but he carried them anyway because it went along with the aesthetic he was trying to cultivate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll be one more chapter I think and the next one is going to be ridiculous in the sense of Crowley making Aziraphale feel guilty in dramatic pitiful snek fashion and ending with some H/C because we all love that, don't we? 
> 
> Also it'll partially take place in a Waterstones because Aziraphale in a big chain bookstore is an idea that I've been wanting to write for a while now. XD


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to write the next chapter of your fic in three steps:
> 
> 1\. Get pneumonia and be bedridden for a week.   
2\. Get super behind in your work so when you get back to it you have to bust your little behind to catch up.  
3\. Catch a cold due to overworking yourself and be forced into taking a break, finally giving you time to update!
> 
> One more chapter after this, I think.

The closest chemist to Crowley’s posh Mayfair flat was located a mere four-minute walk from the building’s front door between a bank branch and a specialty café that served exceedingly overpriced beverages. It really would have been faster just to walk the half kilometer than it would be to get to the car, drive down the busy street at this time of day, and find an empty spot in the carpark. 

Of course, that would have meant being exposed to the elements for more than the bare minimum of time and Crowley was, after the events of the morning, determined not to linger out of doors for longer than necessary until the weather decided to behave more reasonably. This chilly weather was clearly hazardous to one’s health [1].

Presently he was sitting in the Bentley outside of Boots with his face pressed into his handkerchief as he endured an extremely undignified sneezing fit. This was the other reason he brought the car – he really didn’t need to have  _ humans  _ staring at him while he was in this miserable state. 

“Bugger me,” Crowley growled when the fit passed, flicked the handkerchief to the side to immediately miracle it dry and usable again, and shoved it unceremoniously back into his coat pocket. This cold was taking hold fast. The sooner he got home to his bed (and if everything went according to plan, got drunk and/or high on cold medication) the better. 

Soon the demon found himself in the bright, sterile pharmacy under fluorescent lighting in an aisle marked Cough, Cold, and Flu. The shelves in front of him were packed with all manner of bottles and packages. Crowley glared at the lot of it with a screwed-up face, regularly swiping at his streaming nose. There were liquids and pills and tablets for all kinds of vile afflictions. ‘Humans bodies are disgusting,’ he thought miserably. 

Then he glanced momentarily up at the next aisle at the sign marked Stomach Relief and  muttered, “ Blegh !” with a cringe. Things could  definitely be worse. 

In Crowley’s opinion obtaining what he was after was a lot more difficult than it had to be. Things were a lot simpler back when you could nip into the shops and  in under a minute it was  ‘thanks for the morphine, much obliged, off I go to get fucked up until my cough goes away and perhaps a while longer!’

Apparently, that wasn’t allowed anymore. Some human decided that prescribing narcotics for the sniffles was a  _ bad idea  _ and ruined it for everyone, especially for Crowley. His snake eyes struggled to read the tiny text on the side of one of the many boxes and, finding that he didn’t recognize any of the ingredients, fixed his attention instead on the warnings listed below.

“Warning:  May cause drowsiness or excitability. Drowsiness may be increased by alcohol, sedatives or tranquilizers. Avoid alcoholic drinks. Do not drive or engage in activities requiring alertness.”

It sounded promising enough. This would have to do. If the medication wasn’t enough to knock him out  properly, he would just chase it with a fifth of rum. That ought to do it. 

He was nearly to the check out when his phone started buzzing in his coat pocket. 

Annoyed, he took it out and glanced at the screen. And then he had to look again. And then he literally growled in annoyance because if his own landline number was ringing him then there was only one  explanation – there was an angel in his flat.

Why  Aziraphale was in his flat just now, he really couldn’t begin to fathom. It wasn’t as though the angel made a habit of popping by any other time. Why today of all days?

Crowley seriously considered letting the call go to voicemail.

Then he remembered what happened the last time he’d neglected to take the angel’s call and he answered the phone with a “Wot?”

“Where are you?”  demanded Aziraphale . “You said you were going back to yours to take care of something but you’re not here.”

“ M’out !” Crowley snapped. He nodded to the cashier and handed over the box of pills that promised to give him some relief. “Why are you in my flat?”

He could hear  Aziraphale’s irritated huff and could picture the angel puffing up like a ruffled pigeon. “I came to look in on you, you ungrateful wretch!" The cashier rang through the medication. “I wanted to make sure you hadn’t gotten yourself  discorporated by freezing to death!”

“Nope!” he  replied , obnoxiously popping the ‘p’. “Still kicking!” He handed over his money to the cashier and pocketed his purchase. “You can go home now!” 

“Where are you?” the angel asked again. Crowley rolled his eyes. “What is so important that you left me by the side of the road?”

“I left you in front of your shop!” Crowley’s voice was getting higher in pitch by the second. “That’s  hardl \- heh...” He sniffed hard to try and get rid of the tickle in his nose. “Hardly abandoning you on the side of the road!” He scrubbed at his nose with the back of one hand. “I’m shopping!” 

“Shopping?” the angel repeated incredulously. “What are you shopping for?” 

“I’m...I...” Crowley lowered the phone and barely had the chance to clamp the handkerchief over his face before his cold got the better of him. “Heh- A ESHOO! H ’i h-ESCHHH! ESCHHHT!” 

A pair of women who were passing by him into the shop exchanged glances and gave him an extremely wide berth. 

Crowley gave his nose and quick, gurgling blow and jammed the still damp cloth back into his pocket. He returned the phone to his ear and hissed, “I’m getting  medissssine for the shitty cold you let me catch!” 

"I beg your pardon !" came the angel’s indignant reply. “ What in the world are you talking about?"

“ Oh, cut the crap  Aziraphale !” Crowley spat bitterly. He was becoming more certain by the second that the angel had felt the beginnings of a tickly throat and promptly switched back with him without bothering to heal his corporation before handing it back over. Why else would  Aziraphale have appeared at his flat today of all days if not to  _ coincidentally _ find him stuffed up and miserable, just so he could rub his nose in the fact that he was ill because he’d come up with a remarkably stupid idea. 

You know, setting aside the fact that it  _ was _ all because of his stupid idea. 

"I did no such thing! You're the one  tha - ” There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then, “W ait. You're ill? And wandering about in  _ this _ weather? "

“Wow,” the demon said in his best mocking tone. “Such a clever clogs you are, putting that together all by yourself.” The carpark was a mess of slush and it was soaking up into the hems of his jeans. Crowley kicked the snow off his boots on the Bentley’s tires and dropped like a stone into the driver's seat. 

“Right,”  Aziraphale chirped with plainly artificial cheer. “That’s me off then. Do try not to die of exposure and leave a mess for some poor unsuspecting sanitation worker to clean up!” 

“Will do!” Crowley answered, matching the angel’s fake affability. “Ta-ta!” And he hung up the phone sourly. 

With that out of the way, Crowley turned his attention to the box of medication he pulled out of his pocket. According to the tiny print on the side of the box, the correct dosage was two tablets every 4-6 hours.

He figured the sooner he took them, the sooner they’d kick in and he could slip into oblivion, so Crowley popped two tablets out of the blister pack and then two more for good measure and dry swallowed them. 

He was surprised when they got stuck in his throat on the way down and after a great deal of swallowing, coughing, and then gagging and nearly making a mess in his beloved car, Crowley  miracled up a bottle of water and chugged down nearly half of it before the pills dislodged and gave him some relief. 

This was when his phone began ringing once again. To the demon’s great dissatisfaction, the number was his own.

“Get out of my flat!” Crowley growled into the phone, or at least that was his intention. His throat was rather wrecked from recently choking on a throatful of cold  medicine, so it was less of a growl and more of a rasp.

“Good Lord.” Crowley could practically hear the eyeroll. “You sound worse already.” 

Crowley was in no mood for this. His nose and eyes were running from his recent ordeal. He sniffled wetly and scrubbed at his face. “Why are you calling me? I’m trying to drive!” [2]

“Tell me where you are,” the angel insisted. 

He screwed up his face. “Why?” 

“So I can bring you back home and make sure you’re properly seen to.”

“Don’t need seeing to.” Crowley had one hand pinched over the bridge of his nose to try and stave off another sneezing fit. “Seen to myself already.”

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “Look, I’m feeling a tad bit responsible for what happened this morning. You are an idiot to be sure but if I hadn’t waited so long to swap back perhaps you wouldn’t be in the  state you’re in.” 

It took Crowley some time to respond because he was quite occupied with sneezing pitifully into the sodden handkerchief. Fucking misery. He cleared his throat with a wince and lifted the phone to his ear again. “I don’t need you to do me any favors. (Sniff!) If you’re feeling guilty go to confessional.” 

“Crowley...” was the angel’s imploring reply.

“... Ngggh , fine.” With  a few quick taps on his phone, he came up with an address.  “ I’m at  206 Piccadilly. ”

“Wonderful,” the relieved angel said. “Now just stay put. I’ll be there before you can say Jack Robinson.”

“Jack Robinson,” croaked the demon. “I’ll be waiting.” And he hung up.

Then Crowley drove to 206 Piccadilly to wait for Aziraphale to arrive.

It was a Waterstones and the largest bookstore in England. 

  1. Crowley was choosing to ignore the fact that he had a direct hand in his current state. It was a lot easier to place the blame on the weather than it was to admit that he had, once again, thwarted himself. 
  2. He was not. He was still sitting in the carpark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha ha, sorry for this foolishness. This chapter is dedicated to Anastasia whose comment this morning motivated me to get this written from my bed. Please leave angel blessings and warm cups of tea. Thanks to everyone for reading. <3 You are the bomb.com.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard chapter to finish, not because I didn't know what to write but because seasonal depression is kicking my ass this year. Sorry for the wait. It's finally done and I hope it's been worth it. Special thanks to my beta mostweakhamlets for their help with this final chapter.

The sun was already long set that time of year  and the lights of the signs and stores and theatres in the circle seemed all the brighter in the dark of winter's evening. In the glow of millions of LED bulbs, not to mention streetlamps, storefronts, and headlights, everything about Aziraphale was gleaming. From his white-blonde hair to his overcoat which caught the breeze stirred up by passing vehicles, he looked positively incandescent as he walked the bustling street, hands folded before him. 

The angel could have flagged down a taxi or taken the underground to Piccadilly Circus on his mission to retrieve Crowley but chose to walk instead. The reason behind this choice was two-fold. The first reason was that it was only about a fifteen-minute walk to Piccadilly, and it seemed somewhat lazy to hire a ride for such a short distance. The other (principal) reason was that he had the impossible-to-ignore-suspicion that he had a very trying evening ahead of him, and he should savor these last few minutes of peace while he had the opportunity. [1] 

As he turned right from the intersection, Aziraphale’s suspicion that the demon was tempting him into an exasperating situation only grew stronger. There was a certain shop coming up on the left. A very large shop--six stories tall including not one but two dining establishments. He had never been inside on pure principle. Those big chain stores were notorious for putting the smaller independent shops, like his own, out of business. [2] 

Even so, it looked like this evening he would be walking through the front doors of the largest bookstore in Europe for the very first time, with no small amount of resentment. 

“Lord, give me strength,” the put-upon angel sighed before he entered the shop doors. 

Waterstones was big and bright and open concept, mass-produced books stacked attractively on tables and shelves topped with signs reading “Our Books of the Month” and “Reading List Essentials.” What’s more, the place was packed with shoppers and helpful employees and the humans all seemed very pleased to be there. It was so different from his own shop that Aziraphale had a hard time wrapping his head around it.

After the fact, he would blame the difficult morning he’d endured and his concern for Crowley for the way he behaved next. 

A nearby employee approached the angel and, in the put-on chipper tone of retail workers, he asked, “Can I help you find anything, sir?”

Aziraphale tried not to look like the young man had just tried to hand him something absolutely vile (it wasn’t this poor chap’s fault that he was a cog in the corporate machine) and politely replied, “No, thank you. I’m  _ only _ here to meet an acquaintance of mine,” [3] and, casting another glance around the place, gave a brief description of the demon’s appearance; red hair, sunglasses, shifty-looking fellow. 

The man’s face fell slightly, but only for a brief moment. He was clearly trying to maintain his professional veneer. “Ah yes, I believe you’ll find him up in the café on the mezzanine if he’s still there.” 

That the young man knew exactly where to find Crowley was not promising. 

Sure enough, there sat the demon at a table, a mug of something or other to his left, a stack of books to his right. The demon was quite visibly ill, pale with a high flush on his cheeks and nose already angry red. 

“Hullo Aziraphale,” the demon greeted him in a voice thick with congestion and with the energy of someone who had just run into a friend by happenstance instead of obligating them into a staged encounter. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale replied by way of greeting. “I suppose you’re quite pleased with yourself, forcing me to come in here. Is this your idea of tit for tat?" 

Crowley, who was, unbeknownst to Aziraphale, high as a kite on an overdose of cold medicine, gave him a glazed look and snickered. “Heh heh heh...tit. S’a funny word.” 

Aziraphale frowned and leaned in closer to the demon so he could speak with him without drawing unwanted attention. 

“Alright, you’ve pulled your ridiculous little caper,” Aziraphale said as evenly as he could manage at the moment. “Come along now.” 

Bracing both of his hands on the table before him, Crowley raised himself out of his seat slightly. 

“Actually, I think I’d rather ssstay,” he replied with a hiss in his voice. “Nice place thisss. Look at all of these booksss I found!” He gestured widely to the pile of books beside him. “I even found one that’s perfect for you, Angel.”He slid it obnoxiously across the table. 

Aziraphale managed to catch it just before it crashed to the floor. “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up,” he read the title aloud in vexation. 

“’Sposed to be helpful for people who have way too much crap lying around,” the demon snarked with a fang-filled smirk that wavered after a moment and then disappeared when he clamped his handkerchief in front of his face. “Heh h’ih-ESCHHT! H’AESChht!”

The look Aziraphale gave Crowley was a mixture of disapproval and concern. The demon was deliberately trying to antagonize him--which was typical--and behaving like a sloppy mess in a public place--which wasn’t. 

“Have you been drinking?” Aziraphale asked bluntly. 

Crowley lowered the hankie and looked at Aziraphale like he just asked if this place sold giraffes. 

“They don’t serve alcohol here,” he spat, wrinkling his nose, “but I got something called a flat white.” He reached across the table for it and overshot by a mile, knocking the drink onto the floor. The milky coffee splashed all over the coat and handbag of the woman at the next table. “Whoops.” 

“Very smooth, dear,” Aziraphale said dryly, and after a flick of his fingers, the woman was astounded to find that not a drop of the spilled drink had gotten on her things. “Look,” he muttered in disdain at the mess, “this is exactly the kind of thing that can happen when you allow customers to bring food and drink into a bookshop,” and as he pictured it in his mind’s eye the puddle began to spread across the floor until it trickled over the edge of the mezzanine and into the shelf marked Bestsellers. 

Crowley was draped over the table with his head held up in one hand. “Well, maybe if you didn’t have so much junk lying around your shop for people to trip over,” he groused with a wave of one hand. 

“At least my books are valuable! Handbound with care. These machine-made books are soulless! Just look at this slipshod quality,” and suddenly the copy of “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up” that the angel was holding inexplicably fell apart and he was left holding the cover of the book like an empty shell. [4] “You have faceless publishers churning out thousands of copies of the same mass-produced book hour after hour until everywhere you look it’s The Davinci Code!” [5] 

Down on the main floor, a pair of employees were frantically trying to relocate the merchandise on the Bestsellers shelf before everything was ruined by the inexplicable downpour of coffee and milk from above. They were baffled when every book on the display suddenly changed into The Davinci Code. 

Crowley was swaying slightly in his seat. “Honestly now, what’s wrong with you?” Aziraphale demanded, his mood soured by the sensitive topic. “Apart from, well, the obvious.” He gestured vaguely at Crowley’s ill-looking face. 

“M’fine!” Crowley slurred, holding his miraculously recovered and refilled beverage without taking a sip. “I don’t need you, see? Got myself drugs and a warm drink. Doing perfectly well here. Just wanted you to see for yourself, yeah?” 

There was something in all that mess that stood out to Aziraphale. “Hold on one moment. Drugs?” Crowley did seem to be under the influence of something. “Do you have them here? Show me.”

Crowley made a big show of rolling his eyes with a wet sniffle as he removed the small box from his pocket and tossed it in Aziraphale’s general direction. 

The angel picked up the package delicately and glanced over the fine print on the box. It looked like perfectly normal medication with no explanation for Crowley’s bizarre behaviour. That is until he opened the box and slid out the blister pack inside to find it half empty. 

“This is the same medication that you were purchasing when I called you earlier?”

“Yup,” the demon replied, popping the ‘p’ obnoxiously.

“That was less than an hour ago,” the angel said urgently. 

“Was it? Feels like longer.”

“That’s because you’re so hopped-up on cold medicine, you slack-jawed fool of a demon!” He held out the package and pointed to the dosage information as proof. “You’ve had three times the recommended amount!”

“Wha? Noooo,” Crowley muttered, shaking his head blearily. “I only had two and then two more in the car and then, no wait, two more when I sat down here.” He resorted to counting on his fingers like a small child who was doing sums. After making a few wordless noises, he admitted, “No, you’re right. Might have done.” And then his breath hitched and his face disappeared behind the handkerchief again. “H’ih-ESSCHT! Heh-h’TSCHHH! H’AESChht! Guh…” 

The humans who were standing nearby were giving Aziraphale looks that could be interpreted to say, ‘Can you please get your friend out of here before he infects us all with whatever is slowly killing him?’ Aziraphale rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “Are you quite finished here?” he asked restlessly. 

Crowley  _ was _ finished, having successfully retaliated at the angel, but he couldn’t remember precisely why he’d come to Waterstones in the first place at the moment. So, rather than taking his leave and going home to his bed like a reasonable demon, he petulantly said, “Not at all!  _ Snfff.  _ Yours isn’t the only bookshop in London, you know.”

Angels are notoriously patient beings, but even they have their limits and Aziraphale had just about reached his. With a glint in his eyes, he dropped the empty cover of Marie Kondo’s book noisily onto the table in front of Crowley and leaned in close to give him the business. 

“You want to make a scene, Crowley? Fine!” With that, he pulled up another chair and sat opposite his runny-nosed companion, taking the next book from the pile on the table and flipping to the first page. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, so you’re just going to sit there reading “The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic” then?”

“Until you’re finished behaving like a child, I am,” the angel replied sharply. 

“Well, good then!” 

“Right!”

And so they sat together on the mezzanine in Waterstones for the next forty-seven minutes, not speaking, each pretending the other didn’t exist while a frustrated staff member attempted in vain to mop up the spill of coffee that continued to spread across the floor in all directions with seemingly no source. Meanwhile, in-between sneezing and blowing his nose, Crowley gradually wilted over the table until his too-hot face was resting on his folded arms. 

Finally, at the forty-eight minute mark, Crowley relented, lifted his head and whined, _ “Aziraphale…”  _

And, taking in the sight of the miserably ill demon, Aziraphale took pity on him. “Alright, my dear,” he said gently. “Let’s get you home.” 

The pair of them made their way down the stairs and toward the entrance with Crowley staggering, supported almost completely by a steady arm around his waist. Before they passed through the doors, Aziraphale glanced disdainfully back into the store and at the piles of ruined books stacked messily around the floor. “Look at this chaos,” he muttered and, quite magnanimously in his opinion, miracled the place back into a state of order, leaving the staff utterly confused. 

When they reached the Bentley, Aziraphale lowered Crowley into the backseat where he flopped over bonelessly and mumbled, “Don’t drive m’car,” before passing out altogether. 

“What are you on about?” Aziraphale asked, but he was given no reply, so he slid into the driver’s seat of the Bentley. However, before he could even begin to try and figure out how to operate the vehicle it sprang to life and pulled out onto the road. Aziraphale’s voice rose an octave and he gave a rather undignified yelp. 

“Oh, I see,” he said quietly once he recovered from the shock, and he took hold of the steering wheel to avoid the suspicion of anyone who happened to look into the windows of the antique car as it sped by. 

Back in Mayfair, the Bentley pulled up out front of Crowley’s flat and went silent. A little rattled from the drive, Aziraphale stepped back onto solid ground with no small amount of relief and then went about removing Crowley from the car.

The demon was a tangle of limbs spread across the backseat of the Bentley, his head was tipped backwards, he was snoring like a chainsaw, and a stream of wetness was running from his nose down to his upper lip. Aziraphale shook his head with a fond smile and then brushed his fingertips over Crowley’s cheek. “Come on, dear boy,” he insisted. “It’s time to go upstairs.”    
  
“Mmmph,” the demon croaked without opening his eyes. “Nuh. ‘M sleepin’.” 

“I must insist,” Aziraphale replied firmly, “It’s far too cold out here for you to sleep in your car like a tramp.” After several failed attempts to cajole him out of the car, he took hold of Crowley’s shoulders and hauled him bodily out of the door and into his arms, much to Crowley’s extreme displeasure which he expressed by hissing the entire way from the street to his bed. 

“Please release me, Crowley,” the beleaguered angel demanded when the feverish demon’s arms remained firmly latched around him after he was lowered down onto the mattress. 

“No,” came the hoarse reply from where Crowley’s face was pressed firmly into the side of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Really now,” Aziraphale grumbled, “I think we’ve had enough dramatics for this evening. Now let me go!” 

Crowley did not let him go, but instead pulled back and gave Aziraphale the most wretched look in the history of wretched looks. “But...you’re warm, Angel,” he moaned pathetically. 

And, well, Aziraphale couldn’t deny him after that. 

“I suppose when you put it that way,” he acquiesced, and he slipped into the bed beside Crowley where he was immediately wrapped up in long arms and legs. The demon’s face was once again pressed into the curve of Aziraphale’s neck and he gave a contented sigh before drifting off again.

With one arm draped around Crowley’s waist, holding him close while he slept, Aziraphale leaned over and pressed an affectionate kiss to his heated brow. After all, there are worse ways to spend an evening than keeping an unwell demon comfortable, even when that demon has been very difficult to love all day long.

And even when Crowley started snoring loudly again, Aziraphale still loved him very much.

[1] He was correct. 

[2] Except not really his own, but it was the principle of the thing. 

[3] Somewhere over the course of the day, Crowley had been demoted from “my dear friend” to just “friend” to “acquaintance” and by the end of the night he would be referred to as “the vagrant who sometimes falls asleep on my couch.”

[4] There must have been at least 300 sheets of paper floating around in the puddle of coffee on the floor even though The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up only has 213 pages. 

[5] The Davinci Code spent several weeks at the top of the Bestseller list in 2006 which had been a tough pill for Aziraphale to swallow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote for now. Thank you to everyone for all of the love and comments and encouragement. I'll be back shortly with something new. Please feel free to request Good Omens drabbles from me - you find me on tumblr until aknightofthe7kingdoms. 
> 
> Until next time. ❤

**Author's Note:**

> Please send love and soft, antiquarian book seller angel blessings.
> 
> I take requests. Find me on Tumblr, same user name.


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